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NEW POEMS 



BY 

STEPHEN COLERIDGE 

Author of Songs of Desideria, Gloria, 
The Safictity of Confessiofi 




THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA 

1911 



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THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS. IOWA 



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©CLA29O901 



TO ONE WHO SUFFERED 
MUCH AND NOW IS AT REST 



PREFACE 

I do not know whether any explanation is needed 
of the appearance of these few verses first in America. 

Those of us in England who have crossed and re- 
crossed that vast waste of water, and have come to 
count among our friends so many thus poignantly 
separated from us, feel strangely and intimately the 
essential community that lies below so much super- 
ficial difference. 

It may divert a youthful and irreverent press to 
play fantastic tricks before high heaven with the 
spelling of our august and glorious speech, but the 
consecrated phrases that well up from the beating 
heart of our race telling of freedom, honour, love, 
mercy, and peace appeal instantly to something com- 
mon to us all. 

When I was last in Pennsylvania it pleased Mr. 
Luther A. Brewer, the President of The Torch Press, 
to pay me the graceful compliment of printing in a 
lovely type, set in a perfect page, a lecture on poetry 
which I had the pleasure of delivering at Haverford 
College; the beauty of the handiwork of The Torch 
Press having thus suddenly to me been revealed, there 
can be no ground for surprise that when I received 



an offer from Mr. Brewer to publish my forthcoming 
new volume of verse, I accepted it with proper appre- 
ciation. 

"What I have written may be of no value, but I have 
been permitted by The Torch Press to present it to 
the world in faultless attire. 

Stephen Coleridge 





CONTENTS 








Ultima Requies 11 


Outward Bound 










12 


Homeward Bound . 










13 


Lines on a Fly Leaf 










14 


Amor Triumphans . 










15 


A Farewell 










16 


SCHEHALLION 












17 


To Gloria 












18 


The Moon 












19 


Laus Amori 












20 


April 












21 


The Sundial 












22 


Song . 


. 










23 


To Those at Home 










24 


Good Intentions 










25 


Song .... 










26 


The Picture . 










27 


The Empty House . 










28 


Mary Morgan . 










29 


After the '45 












33 



ULTIMA REQUIES 

Just a few hopes, just a few sighs, 
Just a few visions of delight ; 
Just a few dreams of Paradise, 
And kisses in the night. 

Just a few friends that come and go ; 
Brief, eager youth, and briefer age, 
The warp and woof of joy and woe, 
And then the closed page. 

Just a few comrades in the fight 
Shoulder to shoulder in the throng. 
Just a last struggle for the right 
In a mad world full of wrong. 

Lord, grant me with my latest breath, 
'Mid failing faiths and death's alarms. 
The still small voice, and underneath 
The Everlasting Arms. 



11 



OUTWARD BOUND 

Down the Sound to the open sea, 
Fronting the southwest wind, 

With the great Atlantic rolling free 
And our hearts left far behind; 

Over the hills and far away, 

Down in a sunny dell, 
My little sweetheart sings all day 

In a garden I know well. 

Infinite space 'mid the stars above 
And below, — the infinite deep. 

Alone on the bridge I pray my love 
Will true and loyal keep. 

Though wild wastes of waters roll 
Between my dear and me. 

My faith is surer than the pole, 
And deeper than the sea ! 



12 



HOMEWARD BOUND 

I 

I love to hear the music 
Of the gale among the shrouds, 
And the roaring of the billows 
Beneath the rugged clouds, 
And the racing of the engine 
As her bows go out of sight, 
And the wailing of the eight bells 
Upon the wild midnight! 

II 

And down across the tropics 
Where the sea's as smooth as glass 
I love to watch the shimmer 
On the flying fish that pass. 
And o'er the starlit waters 
I gaze astern at night 
At the wake all phosphorescent 
That stretches out of sight. 

Ill 

But when we're sailing homeward 
And Portland Bill is passed. 
And slipping up the Solent 
We make the good ship fast, 
Then all the boasted glories 
Of distant sea and shore 
Serve but to make me love thee, 
Dear England, more and more. 

13 



LINES ON A FLY LEAF 

PROM THE FRENCH OF RONSARD 

When in the far-off years 

You dream by the candle light 

In the old chair by the fire 

Through the lonely winter night, 

As you read my verse you will murmur 

*'Love to youth belongs, 

And 'twas once for the love of me 

The poet sang his songs. ' ' 



14 



AMOR TRIUMPHANS 

Lord of my trembling heart, I yield to thee, 

The fight is over, I am spent and faint; 

In vain, in vain I prayed not to desire 

And shut the door against love's fierce complaint. 

No more can I forbid my King his throne 
Or save myself from sinking at his feet, — 
Lift me in thy strong arms and hold me close 
My Conqueror! Is the surrender sweet? 



15 



A FAREWELL 

I'll ask no more, nay, for my manhood's sake 
That which thou dost not give I will not need ; 
The tribute of my pain thou shalt not take ; 
"Where love is gone, 'twere better to be freed. 

Then let us part; I will not crave a kiss 

From those dear lips where sweetest falsehoods dwell, 

Nor will I stay to see another's bliss, 

The world is wide enough for me ! Farewell ! 



16 



SCHEHALLION 

In the fragrant strath I found you 
Up your native mountain hollow 
Where the purple heather flowered 
by the loch. 

There your loveliness possessed me 
With a flood of deep desire 
While we climbed the hoar Schehallion 
through the dew. 

To the west the Glencoe Shepherds 
All around the dreaming mountains 
Lifted from the world together 
to the skies. 

Perished now, those passionate visions 
Never never more returning 
Lost with that forgotten summer 
long ago. 

Now the falling hours bring me 
Vain regrets so sweet and bitter 
Like the long roll of the wide sea 
on my soul. 



17 



TO GLORIA 

Oh ! heart of mine ! when will you cease from longing ? 
By that road peace can never come again ; 
Not to achieve the deep desire is anguish, 
And to achieve it equally is vain! 

Oh ! dark blue eyes ! that seem so true and tender, 
This is the fateful lesson that you teach : — 
Lift not the hands to pluck the passion flowers, 
Heaven to be Heaven is ever out of reach. 

Oh! heart of mine! trust not the sweetest whispers. 
The fairest lips have used them for deceit ! 
Set up your altar beyond life's betrayals 
Where everlasting Love has built His seat. 



18 



THE MOON 

Riding the tempest heedless of the wail 
Of widowed woman on the sleet-swept shore, 
While the stark whirlwind bends the reeling mast 
And rends to ragged strips the sinking sail; 
Careering through the cloud wrack's deafening roar, 
The rowel on the spur of the ice blast ! 



19 



LAUS AMORI 

Love wisely if you have the wit 
Nor suffer it beyond control, 
Love as the angels if you can 
Let passion sanctify the soul. 

Love w^hile the blood throbs in the veins. 
Love while the rosy lips are pure, 
Love while the breath of life is strong 
While love's long ecstasies endure. 

Love in the morning's pageantry, 
In the fierce sun's creative light; 
Love in the evening's yielding hour, 
And in the sacramental night. 

Love while the earth lasts underneath 
And the great firmament above. 
Love to the deeps of time and space. 
For love is God, if God be love! 



20 



APRIL 

The life begins to stir 
The seed in the dark earth, 
The twigs along the hedge 
Awake into new birth. 

The sun-god climbs the sky, 
The wind is in the west, 
The robin pipes his love 
To sweetheart on her nest. 

Ah! happy little birds 
That mate and kiss and part, 
To you Spring never sings 
Songs to a heavy heart! 



21 



THE SUNDIAL 

Old Sentinel of Time 
Grown grey among the flowers, 
With patient steadfastness 
Counting the falling hours. 

The index creeps along 
Through sleepy afternoons, 
And a pale record keeps 
Beneath red harvest moons. 

Soft whispers it has heard 
Breathed in fair ladies' ears, — 
Its old face has been wet 
With lonely lovers' tears. 

While children's children come, 
Live, love, and pass away. 
The ancient dial stands 
Preaching eternity. 

Type of the great of heart 
While summers come and go, 
Still faithful to the sun 
Whether it shine or no. 



22 



SONG 

Ah! long beloved Desideria mine, 

Shew me some new sweet way to love thee more ; 

The passion-tossed delirium divine ! 

The ecstasy that throbs at the heart's core! 

Teach me the dream of Egj^pt's Antony 
That lost the world for the fair pagan's charms; 
Give me a draught from Venus' alchemy 
And the desired haven of thine arms. 

Make what can never die a new delight 
Immortal, rapturous for evermore; 
Unveil thy glory to my ravished sight, 
Of thine own Majesty serenely sure. 



23 



TO THOSE AT HOME 

Solitary, on tho steep 
Of this distant shore I stand, 
And across the heaving deep 
I stretch out a loving hand. 

Trackless wastes may intervene ; 
Touch and see we cannot yet; 
Time and space offend between 
By the bonds of body set. 

But the mind no fetters knows, 
And the heart is free to roam. 
All around the world it goes 
To the door of its own home. 



24 



GOOD INTENTIONS 

An evil proverb says that Hell 
Is paved with good intentions, 

Such ancient lies can only be 
The Devil's own inventions. 

Though good intentions fail and fail 

Till seventy times seven, 
God takes the will for better things 

To pave the floor of Heaven. 

Those who still try to struggle on 

And fall, and stagger up, 
Who sink with bleeding feet, and drink 

Remorse's bitter cup. 

Who through their prison bars can see 

The road they never trod. 
Yet through their tears gaze up toward 

The distant hills of God; 

Oh! surely these, who to the end 
Have wished those heights to win, 

Will reach the feet of Him who still 
Forgives us all our sin. 



25 



SONG 

Quiet hours are the best; 
Wlien the sun goes to his rest, 
Comforted are mourners' sighs 
Neath the deep star spangled skies 

Dreaming there 

Lost to care 
Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. 

Girls and boys throughout the world, 
In their downy couches curled, 
Soon forget their little woes 
When the nurse tucks up their toes- 
Dreaming there 
Lost to care 
Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. 

Men and women growing old. 
Peace of mind to folly sold, 
Trouble takes them for her own 
Till at night they lay them down. 

Dreaming there 

Lost to care 
Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. 



26 



THE PICTURE 

Oh! that those eyes could see me, 
Oh! that those lips could speak, 

And give me again 

What without pain 
I never more can seek. 

There let the dream of beauty 
Richly serenely still 

In a vision strange 

That cannot change 
Its loveliness fulfil. 

Now in the hallowed gloaming 
Fades the sweet face from sight. 

But I seem to hear 

A foot-fall near, 
'Twixt twilight and the night. 

Oh! that those eyes could see me, 
Oh! that those lips could speak, 

And give me again 

What without pain 
I never more can seek. 



27 



THE EMPTY HOUSE 

Oh it's dreary work to start again upon the daily 
round 
When no one waits your footstep on the floor, 
And the house is dark and empty, when you reach 
your home at night. 
And not a word of welcome at the door. 

And it's lonely in the daytime, and it's lonelier at 
night. 
When sinking ashes on the fender fall, 
And while noises from the street below have slowly 
died away 
You sit for hours staring at the wall. 

As you touch the dear familiar things, and mark the 
vacant chair, 
And wander round the empty rooms alone. 
You recall each tender memory with hopeless vain 
regrets. 
And the sinking heart within you turns to stone. 

And you think of all the loving things you long so 
much to say, — 
You'd give the world the past to recreate, — 
But the door is shut upon you, and across it there is 
writ 
The saddest of all human words, — ' ' Too late ! ' ' 



28 



MARY MORGAN 

Among the sleepy hills of Radnorshire 

The pendulum of life for centuries 

Has swung with the same cadence dreamily ; 

The little town Presteigne lies nestled there, 

A type of peaceful continuity 

Where one day never differs from another 

Save by the seasons' sequence round and round, 

And the slow process of the Calendar. 

But in the dawn of the last century 

It was the scene of such a tragedy 

So pitiful, of such compelling woe. 

As cannot easily have been surpassed 

In all the annals of this cruel world. 

When Mary Morgan came to Radnorshire 

She was a lovely child of sweet sixteen; 

Within a year they hanged her by the neck 

At four cross roads outside the little town, 

And buried her beyond the old church tower 

In a place apart in ground unconsecrate ; 

This ignominy done, a tall black slate 

They set up at her feet as though to bar 

Her pitiful corpse from the East and all its hopes, 

And on the slate they wrote this epitaph : — 

"To Mary Morgan's memory, who young 
And beautiful and gently born 
Became the victim both of sin and shame 

29 



And underwent an ignominious death 
For the murder of her bastard infant child 
The eleventh of April eighteen hundred five ; 
Roused to a sense of guilt and of remorse 
By the eloquent exertions of her Judge, 
She underwent the sentence of the law 
With true repentance and a fervent hope 
Of pardon through the merits of our Lord. 
This stone is set up to commemorate 
Not merely a departed penitent, 
But to remind the living of how weak 
And frail is human nature in this life 
When unsupported by religious faith. ' ^ 

Thus Mary Morgan dreamt her childish dream 
Of love she thought divine, and a foretaste 
Of the deep joys of Heaven, and awoke 
To find it the dark roadway to perdition 
And the gate of death! 

And where then was the man 

That brought this baby mother to the bar 

Of human condemnation and God's wrath? 

That for his pleasure thus betrayed a child. 

Abandoned her for his convenience. 

And prompted her to slay the evidence 

Of what she thought was love but found was insult? 

Did he stand near her at that awful trial 

To share, as far as was allowed by law, 

Her long drawn agony and punishment? 

30 



Or was he at his home prone on his knees 
Bowed down with self -abasement and remorse? 
No, no, not there! but on the Grand Inquest 
That found the bill for murder 'gainst the girl 
The father, sat, of Mary Morgan's child! 

The jurymen were marvellous good men! 

Never a one would risk his precious soul 

To save poor little Mary Morgan's life, 

And so for conscience sake they turned their backs 

Upon the promptings of Christ's charity. 

But though his honest name has long been lost 

There was at least one gallant gentleman 

"Whose manhood bade him instantly take horse 

To London to entreat for a reprieve. 

He got it, after precious hours lost; 

But thrice a hundred miles over the hills 

Is a wild ride, and though we may be sure, 

As through the night he galloped 'neath the stars. 

What man and beast could do was nobly done : — 

Alas ! for Mary Morgan ! love and death 

Were the same to her an hour ere he reached 

The awful gibbet at the four cross roads ! 

He could do nothing more for her in life 

But sure the little headstone at her grave 

Was placed by him there with no more than this : — 

''To Mary Morgan's piteous memory 
Who suffered death when she was but sixteen, — 
Let him among you that is without sin 
Cast the first stone at her. ' ' 

31 



The big black slate 
Set at her feet records religion's verdict; 
The little stone set at her head proclaims 
The judgment of the Christ! a hundred years 
Have passed away since the poor child was taken 
From prison to her judgment, and from thence 
To the gibbet at the four cross roads, and thence 
To the grave ; there underneath the grass she lies, 
Her broken heart long mingled with the dust, 
And if her soul be not washed white as snow 
There is no mercy dwells in the sweet Heavens ! 



32 



AFTER THE '45 

In Italy stood Donald Cameron 

A wandering exile from his northern home, 

Poor in his pocket and forlorn at heart, 

And from the lonely shore of the lagoon 

Beheld upon the bosom of the deep 

The queen of cities, Venice, the sea's bride. 

There is a magic in those silent Avays 

And beetling palaces and arches dim 

To pour an anodyne upon the sorest soul. 

In an old palace, now a hostelry, 

A room he found which held an harpsicord. 

And there forthwith determined to remain. 

From the few treasured volumes he had brought 

That night he read in More's Utopia 

That lively health should ever be esteemed 

The greatest of all blessings, when there came 

From near at hand the sound of painful coughing. 

The night was calm and still, the distant cries 

Of gondoliers made a far dreaming song. 

And the sharp note of a child's tearing cough 

Fell with insistent clearness on his ear. 

He read on of the foolishness of men 

Who worship earthly jewels' borrowed light 

When all the while the stars are in the Heavens, 

And once again the painful coughing came 

Between him and the page, till he arose 

And paced the narrow room with angry strides — 

Was this the peace and rest he thought to find? 

33 



His evil fortunes still had followed him 

And brought him where a child's insistent cough 

Would not allow him even to read at peace ; 

And up and down he strode impatiently 

Until the measure of his tread evoked 

The memory of the wild songs of war 

That echoed through his far off native hills; 

And opening the silent harpsicord 

He poured upon the startled summer night 

The strains of the wild northern battle cries. 

A gondolier who drifted far below 

And listened to that alien call to arms 

Murmured, "It is some barbarous foreigner 

"Who knows not that in Venice music sings 

To Love alone ! ' ' and as he passed away 

The haunting music of that fallen cause 

Poured from the window on the still night air 

Until the tolling from a belfry near 

Proclaimed the passing of another day. 

Night after night the coughing came again 
And Donald played upon the harpsicord; 
Anger was in his heart, giving no space 
For sympathy nor for dear charity, 
Till in his bitterness he went his way 
To Chioggia where he could at ease forget 
The sounds that came from childish suffering. 

But Chioggia is not Venice, and in his haste 
He left behind the volume he most loved, 

34 



And very soon he missed the harpsicord, 

And ere a week had sped he called himself 

A fool to fly from Venice for a cough ! 

The sixth day found him sailing slowly back 

Along the Lido with a balmy air 

Watching the campanile grow and grow 

Above the waters through the sunny haze. 

The sun was setting as he reached his room, 

Filling the chamber with its rosy light. 

Upon the table lay a letter, writ 

Unto 'Hhe master of the harpsicord." 

The writing fair was in a woman's hand. 

He broke the wafer, and found this within — 

"I think you will forgive this forwardness 

When you have learnt the cause: my mother's sire 

Was Douglas of Dalkeith, and a true man. 

And therefore I know well your country's speech, 

I learnt it at her knee before she died. 

Though you have many sorrows, you have brought 

Comfort to me, my little brother's life 

Is surely fading, fading from the world; 

His cough will kill him if it be not stayed, 

And I who love him more than life itself 

Must see him struggle through long hours for breath 

When every cough is breaking my own heart, 

But, Sir, I know not whether in him yet 

There lingers still the blood of your own land, 

But sure it is that he is calmed and soothed 

Wliene'er he hears the plaintive harmonies 

Of that far country and its cause forlorn. 

35 



But now for six nights we have heard no sound 
In the long evenings when his cough is worst 
To bring him ease, and thankfulness to me — 
And I had thought you may have learnt our grief, 
And that your kind heart may have said to you, 
That music might disturb your little neighbour; 
And therefore I have writ this letter thus 
To tell you that he loves to hear you play, 
And that he thanks you, Sir, a thousand times. 
All unawares you have been blessing us. 
Francesca the good nurse takes this to you, 
Dolores el Grimani." As he reached 
The end of these so gracious words he heard 
The coughing, coughing of the little boy 
And felt the anguish of his fight for breath. 
And straight there came a welling at his heart 
Of pity and remorse that drew a sob 
Deep from his being, and filled his eyes with tears. 
In a moment he was at the harpsicord 
Pouring his soul out in sweet melody. 
The golden light of evening passed away 
And o'er the city a grey twilight stole, 
And Donald played till he could see no more. 
He rose at last and listened! not a sound 
Came from the little boy, then on his knees 
He fell and prayed. 

With the first morning light 

He took his pen and wrote : — ' ' Unto the fair 

Dolores el Grimani, had you known 

36 



How all unworthy yesterday was I 

To have so sweet a letter sent to me 

Never had it been written; but I am changed 

And hate my former self, for you have ta'en 

The scales from off my eyes; may the dear God 

Restore your little brother! for his sake 

I would I were a master of the art 

To bring to earth the magnificat of Saints." 

The letter with some flowers were hardly gone 

When old Francesca brought him this reply — 

''Indeed, indeed, we thank you. Sir,'' — no more 

The nurse regarded him with favouring eye 

And said perhaps the noble gentleman 

Would like to know that early the next day 

The adorable Dolores and the boy 

Were going away to Naples, for the warmth 

Was greater for the coming winter there. 

The Count, their father, would arrive tonight 

To take them all away with him at dawn. 

And though the climate might be fair, she feared 

That Naples had no noble gentleman 

To give them music on the harpsicord; 

And should he wish for once, before too late. 

To look upon Dolores face to face, 

'Twere well that he should watch about the steps 

Of the old palace at the break of dawn 

When the gondola would take them all away." 

A good reward he gave her for her pains. 

Although his heart sank at the news she brought. 

As Donald played the harpsicord that night 

37 



There clianced to pass below the gondolier 
Who had before called him barbarian, 
And as he paused again upon his dripping oar 
And listened to the lovely melodies 
Unto himself he said — "I judged him wrong. 
He is a master of the songs of love ! ' ' 
The morning rose in splendour, Donald lay 
Moored in his gondola close to the steps 
Where he could see the doorway and the stairs. 
The gondola of the Count was close in front ; 
Long minutes passed in silence, then at last, 
There came the sounds of footsteps on the stairs; 
Donald stepped out and waited motionless. 
First came the porter and the gondolier 
Bearing a litter with the little boy, 
His father walked beside him, with his cloak 
Shielding the boy's eyes from the sudden light. 
They laid him gently in the gondola; 
The Count beside him sat, his hand in his. 
Francesca followed : — a light step within, — 
And, through the portal dim, Dolores came — 
She stood upon the threshold — Donald 's heart 
Was in his mouth, she turned her loveliness 
Towards him, and for one long breathless pause 
She looked upon him. Then Dolores smiled. 
And, taking a white rose from out her breast. 
She dropped it there upon the marble stairs ; 
Then she stepped down into the gondola. 
The gondolier pushed off while Donald knelt 
And with a beating heart took up the flower. 

38 



The distance grew between them silently. 
He saw Dolores leaning sweetly down 
To kiss her little brother, then at last, 
A bend in the canal, and they were gone ! — 
There Donald stood, transfixed as in a dream, 
The white rose in his hand. At last he turned 
And with slow steps he reached his lonely room. 
He closed the harpsicord and locked it up. 
And going to the window dropped the key 
Into the silent water far below. 



39 



OCT 2 13" 



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